


This Desperate Proximity

by icandrawamoth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Lactation, Married Couple, Miscarriage, Past Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Joly try to deal with the aftermath of a devastating loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Desperate Proximity

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to check out the tags before reading, there's some real Fanfiction-brand stuff in here. *hides*

Joly and Combeferre haven’t left the house since it happened, or talked to anyone. They need their space to process and grieve. Blessedly, their friends seem to understand, and haven’t forced their company other than one of them stopping by each day to drop off food and keep the couple from having to shop or cook much.

They spend the days in near-silence, just sitting together at the table or on the couch or in bed. Sometimes they cry and cling to each other. Sometimes they put on the TV and try to watch. Sometimes the phone rings, and sometimes it’s answered listlessly.

Today they’re resting on the couch, having just accepted a casserole from Courfeyrac and fridged it for later. Combeferre is leaning against the arm of the couch, staring off lethargictly, not even aware of what’s on, his husband resting against his side. He thinks he’s mostly asleep.

He’s wrong. Joly makes a soft sound and shifts restlessly. When Combeferre looks over, he has a hand splayed across his chest and a look of discomfort on his face.

“What is it?” Combeferre asks, voice rough from disuse.

Joly glances up at him, and Combeferre knows by now the words he swallows. _Stop coddling me. Stop thinking the worst is happening at every little thing. The worst has already happened._ He looks away again, cheeks coloring, and murmurs, “Sore.”

Combeferre feels stricken. Of course. “Your milk,” he says softly. “Without…without something“ – he tries not to choke on the word, on what that something should have been – “to remove it, it’s building up and putting pressure on your breast tissue. Engorgement.” The word comes to him from of of the many, many books they’d read in preparation. Useless preparation, now.

Joly nods, because of course he understands too, they both know the medical things, though they never planned for this outcome. His face is working like it does when he’s trying hard not to cry, and Combeferre wants to look away, but it would be a disservice. They’re both heartbroken, there’s no use denying it, and no use denying that each new detail only adds to it and makes it fresher. Joly turns his face into Combeferre’s shoulder before the tears can escape.

Combeferre’s hand trembles as he reaches out does his best to steady it before touching him gently, fingertips tenderly massaging the swollen flesh. Not too much; he doesn’t want to encourage further milk production. “It should only last for a few days,” he promises softly. “Three to ten, the books said.”

He can feel his own lip trembling as he recites the facts, tears threatening again, and he’s dully surprised that either of them have any left at this point.

Joly nods against his shoulder, resigned, then says, so softly the words can barely be heard between the folds of fabric, “That helps a little.” He means his husband’s ministrations, and Combeferre moves to the other side of his chest, continuing the gentle massage.

“A cold pack would help more,” Combeferre suggests, and Joly is quick to shake his head.

“Please don’t leave.”

“Okay,” Combeferre agrees softly. “I’m not going anywhere. Maybe later. I think it would make you feel better.”

Joly nods again, huddling even closer to Combeferre than before. It seems to be the only kind of small respite from the endless waves of grief, this desperate proximity. Combeferre opens his arms and Joly moves immediately, something like a sigh of relief falling from him, and Combeferre aches to think he might have been waiting for that, that he might have unconsciously denied him the loss of even one iota of pain. Joly slides into his lap, a now-familiar position, resting against his chest, head on his shoulder, face tucked into his neck. Combeferre has grown used to feeling warm tears there.

Combeferre manages to quell his own grief for the moment, focussing on comforting his husband, one hand carding through his hair while the other strokes down his trembling back.

After awhile, neither knows how long, he quietens again, just resting there, lost in silent thought. After awhile longer, he shifts, and Combeferre knows what’s coming before he says it. “I’m sorry,” Joly whispers against his skin.

This, finally, drags a tiny sob from Combeferre. Despite all of Combeferre’s assurances, despite the way it rips at him every time, Joly still can’t forgive himself or accept that Combeferre doesn’t blame him for what his body did. It is perhaps this detail that hurts Combeferre most of all, that none of his endless words can stop the one he loves so much from hurting needlessly on that count.

He gets his hands around Joly’s face, gently guides him away until he can meet his eyes – soft brown, red-rimmed, shining with tears. “You don’t need to be,” he says softly, firmly. Not _shouldn’t_ be, because Combeferre will never tell him what he should be doing with his own grief. He still can’t fathom what it must have been like for Joly to feel it happen, to be the one of them to physically experience it. He still hasn’t talked about it, and Combeferre will be here for him when he’s ready, regardless of how much it hurts.

“But I am.” There is so much pain in Joly’s voice, so much guilt, before he drags his eyes away, his expression crumpling as tears take over. Tiny whimpers trickle from his mouth as Combeferre pulls him close again, tears streaming down his own face as he kisses his forehead fiercely.

He remembers once again Joly, bloody and crying in pain and grief as he realized what was happening. Considers, not for the first time, how he might have lost them both. Counts himself lucky.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs against his husband’s forehead, arms tightening around him. “I don’t blame you, Joly. Never. _Never._ I am so glad you’re still here with me. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Joly returns, voice high and strained and shaky with tears.

This is the price we pay, Combeferre thinks, holding his husband tight in his arms, trying to beat away grief for both of them with touch and will and love alone. Sometimes dreams don’t come true. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, and it happens in the worst of ways.

But sometimes you get to keep what you have, and he is immeasurably grateful for that.


End file.
